This Private Moment
by Struck Upon a Star
Summary: One-shot. Alice's POV. The story of the first four times she and Jasper make love. Citrusy, but no lemon.


**A/N: This was originally meant to be Chapter 15 of my story All the Difference, but I decided that I liked it enough to give it its own space. The title is taken from page 495 (pb) of New Moon, though the story takes place pre-Twilight. The way I imagine it, once Alice finds Jasper, she takes him to a house that she has bought for the two of them. This is the story of their first day together.**

**If you like this, please consider reading my other stuff. And as always, reviews make the world go around. Well... my world at least.**

***Stephenie Meyer created Twilight, hence, she also created Alice and Jasper. But I created this moment for them.*

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**This Private Moment**

The first time we make love the world explodes. I mean it. The world. Literally. Explodes.

If our bodies weren't so indestructible, we would never be able to survive this. The force of his hips against mine, the strength I use to grip his hair and pull him to me, the intensity with which we dig our nails into each other's skin—any of these would be sufficient to end both our lives were we not immortal.

As it is, only material things suffer from the force of our explosion. My blue Italian dress is the first casualty as Jasper, in his frustration at not being able to work the various clasps and buttons fast enough, settles for shredding it off of me instead. Jasper's clothes don't fare much better. I try to be patient, I really do. But honestly, why do clothes have to have so many _buttons_? I give up, and in less than a second, the unrecognizable scraps of his pants and shirt are lying on the floor next to mine.

We make a dent in the wall that's exactly Jasper's shape and size when I press myself against him just a little too hard. Plaster flies everywhere. The bed frame collapses the moment he and I tumble onto the mattress together. The mattress itself reaches its breaking point right around the same time we do, and as we groan into each other's necks, the overtaxed springs rip their way out of the fabric and break several windowpanes in their various flights.

It is over in seconds—ninety-eight of them to be exact.

_Hot damn_.

***

The second time we make love we take our time.

Well, _I_ take _my_ time.

I'm curious. To my knowledge, I've never done this before. I'd like to think that even in my human life, this was something I never experienced—I'd like to think that even then I was saving myself for him. But I can't know that. All I know (and this, only because he told me) is that _he_ is far more experienced than _I_. He knows exactly what effects his movements have on my body because he's used them on women before. This doesn't make me jealous, but it does make me nervous. I want to be sure I can make him feel the same fire that rages inside me every time he touches me.

So I cheat: I use my gift. When he pulls me to him for the second time, I look into the future to see exactly what each of my touches and caresses will do to him. In this way, I learn what he likes. My lips planting tiny kisses up and down his neck is good; yanking his hair when I want him closer to me… not so much. _Oops_. Him lying on top of me: good. Me straddling his thighs… _better_.

This time it takes us a little longer, but it is worth it just to feel the way he shudders beneath me when I finally get things exactly right.

Whoever said love must be blind had obviously never seen the rapturous smile a girl can put on a man's face when she dazzles him with her sexual expertise.

***

The third time we make love, I find out I'm not such an expert after all. He knows that I used my abilities to figure out exactly what he wanted, and he wants to do the same for me. He tells me to forget about looking into the future, and just concentrate on what I'm feeling in the present, so I do. And within seconds, I can feel him using the subtle changes in my emotions to guide his actions. _It's working…_

… a bit too well.

He's feeling everything I feel right along with me, and so all of my own emotions are doubly intense because he's projecting them back towards me. No substance on earth—not rock, nor steel nor granite, nor even my own skin is strong enough to contain the passion that is building inside of me. I can't keep it all in. So I do the only thing I can do—I release as much of it I can in a euphoric scream.

Before I even know what's happening, Jasper has sprung off of me, and is crouched low against the back wall of the room, clutching his hands to his ears in obvious suffering. I can't imagine what I've done wrong. Had I screamed so loudly that I'd actually hurt his ears? I don't even think that's even possible. But clearly I've made _some _mistake. I hang my head, embarrassed, and wait for him to speak.

"Alice?" he whispers, after several minutes. I look up at him. He's no longer clutching his head, and he's slightly raised from his defensive crouch, but the expression in his eyes confuses me. He looks… remorseful.

"Are you okay?" I ask him, suddenly more concerned for him than I am with my shame.

"I'm fine," he starts, as he takes a step towards me. But then he stops and steps away again, so his back is pressed against the wall. "You _screamed_," he says, agony rippling through his voice.

And then I understand my mistake. Screaming for him has always been a cry of pain. Though mine was a scream of pleasure, he heard in it the voices of the thousands of others who would never feel pleasure again. He had backed away from me because he thought he'd been hurting me—possibly, he had even been afraid he might be killing me.

My shame is instantly gone. I fight the urge to replace it with pity, because I know that pity is the last thing he wants from me. He still doesn't think himself worthy of it. Instead, as I approach him, I allow all the love I have for him to flow to the forefront of my mind. He can feel it as I approach, and when I reach him, he allows me to sit next to him and assure him that I'm okay.

Still, it takes him a full twenty minutes to be able to touch me again. When he does, it is only to rest his head in the crook of my neck and softly whisper,

"I will never hurt you, Alice."

I don't need to be able to see the future to know that he never will.

***

As the sun sets on our first day together, Jasper asks me what it's like being able to see the future. I shrug my shoulders.

"What's it like to have memories? From what I understand about the way our minds work, most of us are able to recall aspects of our human lives, though these usually come in flashes, and are invariably hazy and unclear. Such memories don't exist for me. Instead, I see flashes of the future, and though these flashes are quite clear, they can be just as untrustworthy as any human memory. For the most part, the future is subjective—it changes based on decisions people make."

He picks up on the four most crucial words in my explanation.

"_For the most part?_"

"I have a theory that some aspects of the future are set in stone, that there are some decisions that are made for us, before we consciously make the choice for ourselves," I explain. "You, for instance, have always been so clear to me, and I believe that's because we were always meant to meet, and that this," I squeeze his hand in mine, "was always meant to be. I had a choice, of course, and so did you. But I believe that someone, somewhere, already knew what we would both choose."

He smiles down at me as I lean my head against his shoulder. For many minutes, we just sit together quietly; content with the path we have chosen.

After awhile, I break the silence to ask him what it's like being able to sense emotions.

"Mostly it's been difficult," he sighs. "For practically my whole life I've been immersed in an atmosphere of fury and rage. I had to work very hard to push those feelin's from me when I left Texas. When I was with Peter and Charlotte, it was different, though not exactly ideal. I felt like an outsider most of the time, since the majority of the emotions they felt were meant only for each other—it was like I was always intrudin' on somethin' that was meant to be very special, very private… I wouldn't want anyone else feelin' what I feel when I'm with you, for instance," he says, shooting me a sly grin.

"Sometimes though," he continues after he pauses to touch his lips to mine, "sometimes it's extremely helpful. Bein' able to feel and manipulate emotions—that's partly what's kept me alive all these years. And not only in battle, though it was certainly helpful there. But it kept me alive in other ways as well. Every time things would get to be too much for me, every time I'd think to myself that life wasn't worth livin' anymore, I'd _feel_ somethin' that would convince me it was. I'd see a group of friends walkin' down the street and I'd know happiness, I'd see children playin' together in a park and I'd know joy, I'd see a baby bein' carried by his mother and I'd know peace—all of these were enough to convince me that maybe life was worth livin' after all."

He turns to me and presses his forehead to mine so that we are looking directly in each other's eyes. I sigh as his cool breath washes over my skin when he begins to speak again.

"And of course, last night, I saw _you_… If I could sit here in this room with you and just be able to feel this love for the rest of my life… well then, I reckon forever's really not gonna be long enough."

.

.

.

And that's how we begin to make love for the fourth time.


End file.
